


The Doctor's Doctor

by Ophelia_j



Series: After the Hiatus [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: But Watson Isn't much better bless him, Grief, M/M, Old Friend, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 00:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8644945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_j/pseuds/Ophelia_j
Summary: A friend from Watson's army days arrives in London, at the moment when Holmes and Watson's relationship is about to fall apart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some very kind people said some very nice things about my first fic, so I thought I'd try again. This one is a little longer. It got away from me a bit and didn't end up the way I expected. So I tried a rewrite. Same result. So I'm writing a sequel to try and end it the way it was supposed to end the first time! 
> 
> Update: sequel completed: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8776543

In 1894, after three years in which I believed him dead, Sherlock Holmes returned to me. Scant weeks later found us lodged together once more in Baker Street, and tackling those interesting little problems which the complex life of London so plentifully presents. Not all of these cases have been laid before the public, some due to their sensitive or confidential subject matter, others because their inherent nature renders them unsuitable as a narrative intended primarily for entertainment.

In my published stories from this date, I have intentionally given the impression that my life with Holmes continued as if the interruption had not taken place. To an outside observer, I have no doubt that this would appear to be the case. Within our rooms, however, the feeling was very different. In the immediate aftermath of Holmes' return and my relocation, I was still, I think, in shock. More than once, rising to find Holmes not in our shared rooms, I invented an excuse to knock at the door of his room, just to reassure myself that he was still there. I would find it difficult to settle in the evenings if Holmes was not home, and be unable to sleep until I heard his step on the stair.

For his part, the Holmes who came back to Baker Street after his long years away was a more introspective man than the one who left. He had always been prone to fits of great lethargy interspersed with bouts of violent action, and this had not changed. But he would now spend more time absorbed in his thoughts, even without a case to preoccupy him. Having heard him complain so often about the stagnation of his mind without his work, I wondered what he had found to occupy that brilliant mind.

I have spoken little of the intervening years, other than to record the death of my beloved Mary. In truth this is because I have no wish to recall those dark times after Mary's death, and before Holmes' return. But now I find, in order to set this narrative in context, I must return to not one, but two periods of my life I have tried hard to forget. This story is not as others I have told of Sherlock Holmes, and will never see publication. Certainly not in our lifetimes. But given my friend's fame as a detective, I find I wish to set on a record something of him as a man. Future generations, those of a kinder time, will still marvel at these records of a unique and exceptional brain. But I would have them know something of his heart.

I should begin then with a little of my own history. As I have recorded, prior to my first meeting with Holmes, I was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon, and sent to India. By the time I arrived, the second Afghanistan war had broken out, and I followed my regiment to Kandahar. This was my first experience of the horrors of war. I had thought my training as a doctor and surgeon had prepared me for anything that could be done by violence or disease to the human body. Now I can hardly credit my own naiveté. To learn, in such a visceral way, how much pain and trauma the body could take before breaking, and the meagre limits of my own skills to keep body and soul together, was horrifying.

My regimental colleague, Dr James Paulson, was a slightly older, more experienced field surgeon who had seen war across two continents. I was fortunate to have his guidance at my side, but there were days when even he was overwhelmed by the blood and pain. On one such day, we had not managed to save any of the poor men who ended on our table. Time after time, we fought and lost until we were both exhausted. When the casualties stopped coming, he took my arm, and led me away from the carnage to his private room, and sat me down. I noticed then that I was trembling beyond my ability to control, and I wasn't sure I could stand again. Somewhere, he had found brandy, and was pressing it into my hands.

‘Drink it.'

I drank it in one swallow, dropped the mug, and gripped his hand when he went to move away.

‘We didn't save them.' Had I been more self-conscious I might have felt embarrassed by the rawness of my voice.

‘No. We didn't. Not today.' He put his other hand on mine. ‘But we will. Another day. Not every day will be like this, John.'

I think if he hadn't used my given name, and pressed my hand, I might have kept my slender control. But as it was, I broke down, weeping like a child over our clasped hands. He took his hand from mine then, and I expected him to move away. Instead he sat next to me on the narrow bench and pulled me to him, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. My grip on his other hand must have hurt, but I couldn't have released him if my life depended on it. He seemed to understand and simply held me, murmuring reassurance.

After long minutes, as I quieted, I came somewhat to myself. ‘I'm sorry,' I muttered. I still couldn't release his hand. He moved his other hand to my back, rubbing small circles.

‘Don't be.' His chest was still warm against my side, and I hoped desperately he wouldn't rush to move away. In that moment, isolation was more than I could bear. ‘You did well today. Hold on to that. Nothing was your fault. It's a natural reaction to a bad day. It does get easier.' He sighed, his breath hot against my ear.

‘You are not so affected.'

‘I have been. When I started. My first day like this one, I threw up repeatedly, and then got roaring drunk. You're doing much better.' He quirked me a comforting half smile. The unbearable tension in my chest eased a fraction. He continued, ‘You need to try and sleep, if you can.'

I drew a shuddering breath. The idea of moving back to my lonely cot was more than I could stand. Before I could stop myself, I whispered, ‘May I stay with you?' I felt him tense to draw away. ‘Please. Just for now.'

He breathed out, then said, ‘Of course.'

I felt some tightness leave my chest. I looked up at him then, his face only inches from mine where we sat pressed together on the narrow seat. To this day I don't know who moved first. We were beyond exhaustion, beyond morality, beyond caring. In that shadow world of death and violence, the world of home was too far. His lips touched mine, and I forgot the dead and the dying, and pressed forward into the warmth of his chest, releasing his hand only to slide mine across his back, winding my arms around his surprisingly slight frame.

He took my head in his hands then, tilting it to improve the angle. I felt his tongue against my lips and I opened them, sighing into his mouth. The sound gave him encouragement, and he slid one hand down to my rear, pulling me flush against him. The action shifted us both too far forward, and we slid to the floor. He ended the movement above me, and instinctively I parted my legs to allow him to lie between them. The action brought our groins together and he gasped my name against my neck.

We were mindless then, rutting against each other. I fumbled to open our trousers, and my hand found his hardness. I had never touched another man, and the feeling of soft skin around that hardening organ made me moan aloud. He brought his hand between us, and grasped us both. The feel of his cock against mine as he frigged us made the building heat in my body pool in my groin. I whimpered against his neck and he found my mouth again as I began to sob incoherently, ‘God, yes, please, yes.'

My release came on me quickly, and he was not far behind, rutting against my still sensitive organ until he came, stifling his cry against my chest. He cleaned us both, and held me until my shaking stopped and I slept.

The days that followed, in any other circumstance, would have been unbearably awkward. But we were fighting to save lives, against terrible odds, and there was no time for my anxiety and fear about the night before to take hold. Our lives went on as before, but we still lost more than we saved, and even those we saved were often ruined men. And sometimes, after the worst days, in the seclusion of his room, we found comfort in each other again.

During my time in the army, and before, I had enjoyed the company of women. I did not consider those times in war a crime, nor did I consider them as defining my sexuality. As far as I was concerned, I left behind any interest in the male form in the sands of Afghanistan.

My army career ended in 1880, as I have recorded elsewhere, when I was shot at the battle of Maiwand. A debilitating illness after my injury had me sent home to England, to London, and eventually, to a laboratory at St Barts, where I met the man who would restore my fractured existence, and become in the process, my greatest friend, Sherlock Holmes.

Ten years later, I mourned him with a grief whose intensity and depth I would not have credited, then one year later, my Mary. I had not stopped grieving my friend when I lost my wife, and in the months that followed my double loss, I was not myself. I wandered the streets of London like a ghost, unseen and unmoved by all around me. I returned to my practice, and found rooms nearby. I moved from one to the other, my routine only broken on evenings when I could bear the isolation no longer and simply walked the streets to avoid the loneliness of my rooms.

I knew that there were places in London that men who preferred the company of other men could go, but it had never occurred to me to connect those places with myself, until on one of my evening walks I found myself outside one of these establishments. I had had no conscious intent to arrive there, and hastened my steps away. But now my mind was filled with the memory of those times in Afghanistan, and I felt again the desperation of those times, and remembered the relief I had found in the arms of my friend and colleague on our darkest days. What harm could there be, my treacherous mind supplied, in finding such passing absorption again, in these days of utterly unending nothingness? I am ashamed to say that I gave into these impulses on more than one occasion in those bleak, grey days. But then what does a man with nothing to lose care for the censure of the law and society? Any release from the bleakness of feeling nothing at all was a connection to life, however tenuous and fleeting.

I could not know that the seeming source of all light in my world existed still, and was planning his return even then. That moment in my consulting room when the grey world turned to shining colour again will stay with me all of my days.

And so things became then as they had been. Only of course they could not be. As well as an underlying anxiety about my friend's continued presence in my life which led to a near-fixation with knowing his whereabouts on any given day, I also - and contrarily - found habits of his irritating to me in ways they had never been in the past.

It was into this slightly strained atmosphere that I came down one morning to find Holmes opening the post. As I sat to one of Mrs Hudson’s excellent breakfasts Holmes threw one letter after another onto the table. ‘Boring.’ He opened the next, and scanned it. ‘Obviously the daughter in law. Why do people not reason?’ Clearly not expecting an answer, he examined the next envelope before throwing it aside unopened. ‘Tedious.’ He paused at the next, then threw the unopened letter across the table to me, commenting, ‘From a fellow physician’ before continuing through his own post, ‘And apparently this man has mislaid his sister.' Holmes seemed cheered at the thought. ‘Careless, wouldn't you say, Watson?'

I smiled at his tone. ‘It certainly sounds -, ‘ I began. And then my eyes found the name at the end of my letter. Dr James Paulson.

My choked off words caught Holmes attention and I felt his focus shift to me across the table. ‘Ah. An acquaintance, I perceive. Not recent. A medical man, so once a colleague. Not in practice, so from your army days. Afghanis-‘

I slammed the letter down on the table. ‘Holmes, stop.' I didn’t want to hear anything else he might deduce.

He blinked at me in surprise.

‘I’m sorry.’ I said immediately. ‘I….you are quite right. An old friend from my army days.’ I avoided his gaze, afraid my face would betray my thoughts, my memories of James Paulson. Holmes could not know. ‘He is in newly arrived in London and looking up old acquaintances.’

‘Well he need hardly be a detective to track you down here.’ Holmes said mildly. ‘He need only read the Strand.’

‘Which he has apparently done,’ I said, scanning through the letter. ‘He says he has enjoyed my stories very much, had no idea I had any literary ability-‘ this caused me to smile inwardly – it was just the sort of thing James would say. From the tone of his letter he had changed little in the intervening years - ‘and,’ I continued, ‘he is an admirer of yours.’

Holmes was watching me as I looked up. ‘Perhaps then we should invite him to dine at Baker Street?’

This most un-Holmsian display of sociability took me by surprise and I blurted, ‘No! No, that won’t be necessary, I’m sure. He’s probably not even in town for long.’ This was untrue. Even a quick glance at the letter revealed the address of his rented rooms and his intent to stay in London for the foreseeable future.

Holmes spoke after a short pause. ‘As you wish.’ He returned to his post.

I finished my breakfast with subdued appetite.  
  
I met with James a number of times in the weeks that followed. To my great relief, he was as intelligent and personable a man as I remembered, and much pleased to have a friend in London with whom he could socialise. Our talk of Afghanistan was general, and brief, and conversation soon turned to mutual acquaintances. I was able to put him in touch with other colleagues now resident in the capital. He expressed his condolences at the death of my wife, and wonder at the return of Holmes. He apologised profusely for not getting in touch sooner, and explained he had been all over the world with his work in the intervening years and communication with home had been fraught with difficulty.

I waved this off. ‘My dear fellow, don’t give it another thought. Now, you know of my adventures through the Strand. You must tell me of yours.’

And so we passed a number of pleasant evenings, our talk no more intimate than newly reacquainted colleagues, until Holmes became ill.

In my accounting of the cases I shared with my friend, I have occasionally been inexact with dates. This is usually to ensure that no connection with events in the public eye at that time could be made and the anonymity of our clients invaded. In the case of Culverton Smith, however, the reason is simpler. It was only with the remove of time that I could bring myself to write of those events with any degree of equanimity.

So it was in 1894, less than a month after James’ letter, and not 1897 as I would later report, that a brief absence from Baker Street to attend a medical conference ended with me being summoned home by an urgent message informing me that Holmes was desperately ill.

I need not recount again here the circumstances of that case. Suffice to say that for a short time I believed that I was about to be parted again from my dearest friend and that the beloved companionship so recently restored to me would be lost forever.

The events of that evening brought back the horrible, creeping dread I had felt beside those awful falls, seeing again that narrow path, Holmes' walking stick, and that lonely scrap of paper. Watching my friend drift closer to death, sink further from me, and be utterly, hopelessly unable to prevent the inevitable made me believe I could hear again the rushing of those terrible falls.

I listened from my hiding place in our darkened sitting room at Holmes’ behest; ‘Quick man, if you love me!’, as Holmes baited Smith into revealing himself, and in turn revealed his illness to be a deception, aimed only at trapping Culverton Smith. In this, of course, he was successful. I listened in a sort of dumbfounded shock to the arrival of Lestrade, Smith's arrest, and Holmes' explanation.

'...my dear Watson, do you imagine I have no respect for your medical talents? At four yards I could deceive you. If I failed to do so, who would bring Smith within my grasp?’

I was finding it difficult to arrange my thoughts into any kind of coherency. My heart was beating too fast and the warmth of the room was making me feel faint.

I looked at my friend. He had stopped explaining and was looking at me, a slight frown creasing his brow. I became aware that I was not reacting in the usual way to this demonstration of his cleverness. The knowledge made me angry at both of us, and the emotion loosened my tongue.

'I'm gratified by your respect for my medical skills. I'm only sorry it doesn't extend to a respect for my feelings. Or any consideration of them at all, in fact.'

Holmes could not have looked more shocked if I had stepped forward and slapped him.

He stared 'Watson-'

I cut him off. 'Don't. Don't ask me what I'm upset about, Holmes. Don't you dare. Use that incredible brain of yours. Put yourself in my place.' My tone was acidic. 'What could I possibly be disturbed about?'

He still looked taken aback, but said carefully, 'Watson, I've explained. The deception was necessary to-'

I couldn't stop myself. 'Oh was it, Holmes? Was it necessary? Like it was necessary last time?' I laughed then, bitter and slightly hysterical. 'I suppose I should be grateful. At least this time I found out quickly, not three years later.' My voice rose on the last words to almost a shout and he flinched.

He began again. 'Watson-'

But I was lost to reason. 'I grieved, Holmes. For years. For you. I was broken.' It was becoming harder to breathe. 'The world was so dark-' I broke off to inhale deeply, trying to gain some control. 'That you could do that to me again, make me believe, even for one night...' I gripped the back of one of the dining chairs and forced my lungs to take in air again. The silence in the room was suffocating.

Holmes was frozen in place, wide eyed and unresponsive. His voice, when it eventually came, was so quiet I could barely hear it.

'Watson. I had no…. Forgive me.'

I wanted to hit him. I wanted to throw myself weeping into his arms.

I said, 'I can't'.

I didn’t look at him as I left.

 

I walked across London in a daze. I had no destination in mind, but I knew I couldn’t be at Baker Street without saying something irreparable. Eventually my steps began to find a destination. I needed a friend, someone to talk to, who would listen without judgement. After less than an hour of walking, I found myself outside James’ rooms.

In spite of the late hour, he was still awake, and welcomed me with genuine fondness, if some surprise.

‘Watson! This is a wholly unexpected pleasure.’ He ushered me to a chair in front of the fire, into which I sank gratefully. ‘Can I tempt you?’ He gestured with his own half empty brandy glass.

I gave him a weak smile. ‘Thank you.’

He handed me a glass, took the chair nearest to me in front of the fire, and we drank in companionable silence. After a few minutes, James drained his glass and set it down, leaning back in his chair.

He shot me a half smile and said carefully, ‘Shall we indulge in some comforting small talk, or would you like to move straight to what brings you here at this slightly unsociable hour?’

‘I’m sorry to-‘ I began, but he cut me off with a wave.

‘Ah, ah. None of that. You are always welcome here. At even more unsociable hours than this.’ The smile that accompanied these words was warm, and I felt myself relax a little.

‘Thank you.’ I said. ‘That’s kind.’

He rose to fetch the decanter of brandy. ‘Not really. I enjoy your company. Although I wish it was under better circumstances.’ He poured his brandy and regarded me closely, leaning on his desk. ‘You look terrible.’

‘Well that kindness didn’t last long,’ I said dryly.

He grinned. ‘There’s a reason I was never called to the diplomatic service.’

I managed a small smile and silence fell over the room again.

‘I’ve intruded on your evening,’ I said. The warmth of the fire was soothing. ‘I should go.’

He swirled the dark liquid in his glass and regarded it as he said quietly, ‘Is it Holmes?’

‘What makes you say that?’

Still addressing his glass, he said, ‘I’ve read your stories. It’s clear how much you admire him. And he does indeed seem admirable.’ He flicked a glance at me then. ‘But not perhaps the easiest man to live with.’

I said quietly. ‘He is good man. I would even say a great one. I have never known anyone like him.’ There was an absurd catch in my throat as I added. ‘I just don’t know if I can live with him.’

James set down his glass. He said, in a voice I had heard him use to break bad news to patients, ‘John. What happened?’

I told him.

James listened in sympathetic silence. I have no idea how long I spoke but he did not interrupt, and barely moved other than to drink. The words rushed out and I found myself recalling my experiences after Reichenbach, being more open with James than I had been with anyone since my wife. And there were confessions I could make to James that I could never have made to my beloved Mary.

Eventually I fell silent. I hoped I had not overstepped any bounds, but as I finished my drink I felt unburdened in my relief.

After a while James said, ‘Well, I understand your anger. Even by the standards of great men, that behaviour is….eccentric.’

I looked steadily at him. ‘Holmes is not the only great man I know, and to my knowledge you are not guilty of similar…..eccentricities.’

He laughed. ‘I am a lone traveller and confirmed bachelor. At my age, that is plenty of eccentricity to be going along with. And besides, you flatter me. My accomplishments, such as they are, are entirely undeserving of such praise.’

I frowned. ‘I disagree. You have travelled the world. Taken the life altering techniques of modern medicine to places which previously could not recognise a scalpel. Frequently at risk of your own safety. You have not only saved lives yourself, but trained others to do so. How many people across the globe are alive now because you visited their community? How many will be alive in the future? Don’t underestimate the value of your contribution.’

He was staring at me, and the colour had risen slightly in his cheeks. As I finished speaking he laughed, a little embarrassed, but also, I thought, quietly pleased.

‘God, do you talk to Holmes like that? No wonder he loves you.’ I blinked. ‘Well,’ he continued. ‘I won’t argue too hard against your flattering portrayal. But you do place me in an invidious position, my friend.’

He shook his head and I looked at him in confusion. He gave a rueful laugh at my expression.

‘All the time you were talking I was planning such a careful speech. All about the unacceptability of Holmes’ behaviour. His thoughtlessness. How you deserve better. And I stand by much of it. God, that behaviour would be unacceptable from a friend, much less a lover.’

I started. ‘We-‘

He continued, oblivious to my interruption, ‘But now you have cast me in the role of selfless hero of humanity, I find myself obliged to be honest, which is painful, to be frank.’ He looked at me with a wry smile, and then caught my expression. ‘Have I mis-spoke? Forgive me, you know my bluntness.‘

‘No, not at all. I-, that is we, Holmes and I-‘ I found myself suddenly stammering. ‘I mean, the conclusion is entirely understandable given the history that we, that is, you and I, share...’ I tailed off, telling myself that the sudden heat in my cheeks was due entirely to the fire. ‘Holmes and I are just friends. Close friends, of course, but that is all.’

He stared at me, mouth slightly agape and I realised I was seeing James Paulson speechless for the first and only time in my life. I sipped my brandy as I waited for him to recover.

He did so quickly. ‘Watson, I’m sorry. I should not have assumed, of course. I mean,-‘ he stopped. ‘God, I was about to ask if you’re sure. Of course you’re sure, what a bloody stupid thing to think. I apologise.’

And not only speechless, but positively incoherent. I looked at him in surprise. ‘You were convinced of it.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Yes. As you say, with our history, and having read all your stories, I simply assumed. In fact,’ he continued, ‘I wondered how you were getting away with being so – forgive me again – open about it. I assumed that with Holmes’ contacts in the police that perhaps ... a blind eye was being turned, so to speak.’

Now it was my turn to stare in disbelief. After a moment he continued, in a softer tone. ‘I came back to London, you know, when my tour of duty concluded. I wanted to see you. Make sure that civilian life was treating you well.’ He addressed this to the fire. ‘It was after your first few cases had been published in the Strand. I read them. I concluded that my presence would be....unnecessary, shall we say.’

I said in surprise, ‘Not at all. I would have been delighted to see you.’

He exhaled sharply. ‘Well, that is kind of you to say.’

We sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

I said, ‘You were going to give a speech? About Holmes’ behaviour being unacceptable?’

He sighed. ‘Oh yes. And it is, of course. And I was going to suggest that you get as far from him as possible as quickly as possible. I was going to recommend, in fact, that you come here.’ He looked at me then and I felt a heat rise in my cheeks that was nothing to do with the fire. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘as this paragon of virtue and good behaviour you imagine me to be,’ and here he threw me a wry look, ‘I find I cannot say that.’

I frowned. ‘James, I’m not sure w –‘

He said, almost irritably, ‘You love him, John.’

All pretence was gone now and he looked at me, directly, seriously, and his eyes were sombre.

‘And not simply as a close friend.’ He continued more quietly. ‘As a friend, I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t suggest that you go back and tell him so, plainly and without evasion. It may be that you end up leaving Baker Street anyway, but at least you would be doing so honestly, with all out in the open between you. And in that circumstance, I would of course be delighted to see you, in whatever ....capacity..... you wished to room here.’ He looked away then, into the fire.

I stammered, ‘But I don’t-‘ And stopped. But of course I did. I had been a fool not to see it before. Why else would Holmes’ unfeeling actions have caused me such distress? I had loved him for a long time.

James looked up and gave me another of his wry smiles, but this time there was a bitter edge to it. 'Are you really going to make me sit here and convince you of the correct course of action? Because I think I have expended my reserves of nobility this evening. The man is clearly a heartless bastard. Stay here.’

Utterly to my surprise, I laughed. James regarded me for a moment, then he smiled and shook his head.

I said resignedly, ‘He isn’t heartless. He just isn’t interested in love. Of any kind.’

James stood abruptly, walked back to the desk, poured himself another brandy and downed half of it, before saying, ‘Frankly, I doubt that’s true of anyone, deny it as they might.’ He sighed. ‘Just talk to him, John. I think you may find he is not as opposed to the softer emotions as he would have you believe. And even if he is, I believe you will find yourself the exception.’

I stared. ‘How can you possibly know that? Forgive me, but you’ve never met him.’

‘Do you even read your own stories?’ He waved away my response. ‘One example.’ He walked across the room, sat down beside me, and took my hand into his.

I flushed. ‘James-‘

He squeezed my hand, then placed it back in my lap. ‘Exactly.’

I stared at him in confusion. ‘What-?’

‘Why is it different when Holmes does it?’

‘Holmes has never-‘ I began. Then remembered Holmes’ hand slipping into mine, and said weakly, ‘That’s just…. Holmes.’

James raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘I only have your stories to go by of course, but he doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who touches people a great deal. Certainly not voluntarily.’

‘He isn’t.’ I said with certainty.

‘Unless that person is you.’

‘I don’t think-‘ I began, then stopped.

James said wryly, ‘Quite.’

I threw him a look and he flashed me a smile. Even in my confusion I felt a sudden rush of gratitude.

I said, ‘James, whatever happens –‘

He sighed. ‘I know.’ He assumed a look of modesty. ‘I’m a great man.’

I smiled. ‘And a great friend.’

He smiled back, a little sadly. ‘It’s late. And after that compliment I can hardly throw you out. I have a spare room which you are welcome to.’

I held his gaze. ‘Thank you. Truly.’

He stood, and squeezed my shoulder in response. ‘Any time, my friend.’

I left Raleigh Street late the following morning. I knew I needed to return to Baker Street and face Holmes but my conversation with James had given me much to ponder. The late autumnal weather had turned London's parks into a riot of colour and natural beauty but I walked unseeing through it all. To my own surprise, I had slept, when exhaustion from the emotional stress of the last few days had finally overcome me, but I felt far from rested. Taking a meandering route home through Regent’s Park, I sat on a bench near the lake and stared out over the water.

My overwrought emotions of the previous night had faded, giving me some much needed perspective. I had, I perceived with some distress, badly over reacted to Holmes' actions. Yes, it had been inconsiderate, hurtful even, but it had been done in the pursuit of a dangerous, homicidal man without whose presence London was a safer place. It had been, as it ever was, about the work. Holmes had done what was necessary to ensure the conviction of a criminal. It was unreasonable of me to expect any less from him. I had fondly imagined myself at terms with Holmes' return. Clearly, I had failed to reconcile my own emotional state and my failure in this area had led me to abuse Holmes with what to him would have been the most abhorrent emotional display.

I twisted my hands together in my lap. This would not do. I, a former soldier, was as good as hiding in a park, scared to face my dearest friend. I had no desire to leave Baker Street. In the cold light of morning I knew that as clear as my own name. Whilst I had denied James' assertion that I loved Holmes as more than my closest friend, I knew that my feelings were such that losing him again so soon would be a blow from which I would not soon recover. I could only hope that Holmes would forgive my outburst and that we would continue as before. But I could not know his thoughts without returning, and facing whatever justified remonstrations he would feel necessary. Fixed on my course, I left the bench and turned my steps homeward.

It was early evening by the time I arrived. ‘Doctor, oh Doctor!' Mrs Hudson appeared the moment I opened the door to 221B and seized my hand, positively dragging me towards the stairs. ‘I'm so glad to see you. Mr Holmes said you might be gone some time, but I knew you wouldn't leave him in such straits.' She patted my hand approvingly.  
  
‘Mrs Hudson,' I began.

She turned to face me then, holding my hand. ‘He needs you, Doctor. I know how difficult he can be, and so soon after that terrible time too, but oh, he was so miserable after you left last night Doctor, I was worried, and he's not eaten, you know....' the flow of words came to a stop and I pressed her hand reassuringly, touched anew by her concern for Holmes.

She looked up at me then and said, ‘Be gentle with him, Doctor, please.'

I felt my heart give a lurch. I squeezed her shoulder as firmly as I dared. ‘All will be well, Mrs Hudson, please don't concern yourself.' I said this with a confidence I didn't feel, but she smiled at me anyway, releasing my hand. ‘Thank you, Doctor.' She pulled her shawl more firmly around her shoulders. 'Goodnight.'

‘Goodnight, Mrs Hudson.' I looked after her retreating figure fondly, before mounting the stairs. The door to our sitting room was closed and I'm ashamed to admit I hesitated in front of it for some moments, before seizing the handle and entering the room, closing it again behind me.

Holmes was standing by the fire, one arm resting on the mantle, staring into the flames. He didn't move as I entered and I was surprised to see him fully dressed in his grey morning suit. His usual habit at this time of the day would be to have donned his smoking jacket, or even his dressing gown, in preparation to retire. He was still far too thin, and exceptionally pale. I remembered Mrs Hudson's claim that he hadn't eaten, and frowned. It was still too soon after his self-imposed ordeal to trap Culverton Smith for him to be refusing food. This concern pushed the thoughts of my carefully devised apology from my mind, and I opened my mouth to insist that he have at least some of the food our landlady had left on the table before we spoke.

‘Holmes,' I began. My tone was clearly sharper than I intended, for he visibly started at my voice. Seeing how close to the edge of his nerves he was, I began in a softer tone. ‘Holmes, you really should...'

He cut me off with a sweep of his hand. In another time I would have called the gesture imperious, but the pale fingers were trembling. I noticed then that the hand on the mantle was gripping it tightly enough to turn the knuckles white. I looked at him in alarm, and took a step towards him to speak again.

Sensing my intent, he rounded on me. ‘Watson, please.' He still hadn't met my eyes. ‘I must speak.'

Unwilling to upset him further, I murmured, ‘Of course.' I felt a cold hand run down my spine. But if this was to be the end of our friendship, I would face it with all the equanimity I had lacked the previous evening. I drew myself up, and waited.

Holmes had begun to pace in front of the mantle. After a moment he stopped and again stared into the flames. His voice trembled slightly as he began, and then gained in certainty as he went on. ‘I am a vain and selfish man.' I stared at him in disbelief. ‘All my life I have done as I wished, with no thought for the feelings of others.' I wanted to interrupt, to point out the demonstrable untruth of this statement, but he continued, ‘I have always believed the solution, the ending of a criminal career would justify almost any means. Too late, I fear, I have realised I may be wrong. In pursuing my investigations, I have twice now caused you distress. To do so once may be forgiven, I think, as in my haste to dismiss the softer feelings from my calculations; I had not anticipated the hurt I would cause. To do so twice, however, is entirely unforgiveable.'

He turned away from the fire to face me, but did not meet my eyes. He looked every inch a man awaiting a terrible sentence, and I wanted to say something, but found myself unable to speak. Any residual anger had melted away in the face of his obvious distress. He continued, ‘I want you to know that your presence at my side for these years we have spent together has been the great joy and privilege of my life. However, I understand completely your desire to end our association, and I will make no difficulty about it. You will always be welcome at Baker Street. But I wanted to.... ask your forgiveness, before you leave.’

I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued, ‘Understand, Watson, that I did not know.’ He looked at me again then, a plea for clemency, and I had to fight the urge to move closer, to reassure. ‘I thought that with your marriage, you would not feel the loss of a friend so deeply. Had I known the grief I would cause, I would never have-‘ He broke off, worrying at the skin between his eyebrows with his long fingers as if trying to physically erase the lines there. ‘I-‘ he broke off again, and addressed the carpet at my feet. ‘I missed you terribly. You can have no idea how often I wished to see you, to speak to you.’

I said, my voice steady, ‘You missed me?’

He misunderstood. ‘I realise you suffered far more, but,’ he clenched his fists ‘- I did not know. How could I hope, how could I imagine that you would….do me the honour…of grieving for me as….as…’

‘As my oldest and dearest friend?’ I asked quietly. ‘As someone I loved? As someone whose death overshadowed even that of my wife?’ It was my turn to look away. ‘I never truly grieved for her as she deserved. I was still mourning you.’

He swayed slightly, and silence fell. After a few moments he gave a small, tight nod. ‘I understand then.’ He sounded almost business-like. ‘Would you like any assistance with your things?’ He had turned away from me again and was rearranging the oddities on the mantelpiece with unsteady hands. ‘You are welcome, of course, to any souvenir you would like from Baker Street, I have no particular attachment to anything. I take it you will be moving to Raleigh Street.’

I started. ‘What?’

The Persian slipper fell from his trembling fingers, spilling tobacco on the floor. I stepped forward to help and he snapped, ‘I have it.’ He bent and fumbled for it, knocking more tobacco onto the floor. 'For God’s sake-‘ he cursed, his voice breaking on the words.

The sight of my dearest friend, that great mind, in such distress was more than I could bear. I had crossed the room and seized him by the shoulders before I could think better of it. ‘Holmes,' I murmured, ‘My dear, dear Holmes.' I could feel him trembling under my hands and I wanted nothing more than to pull him into a comforting embrace. ‘There is nothing you could do that would induce me to leave. I will stay here for as long as you will have me.' I wasn't even sure he heard me. I took my courage in my hands. ‘Sherlock.’ His eyes flew to mine, wide with shock. At those grey eyes, staring into mine from so close, my nerve almost failed me, so I rushed on, ‘I am the one who should apologise. I spoke without....I shouldn't have said....'  
  
With him here, so close, I couldn't remember my rehearsed words, and others rushed out. ‘You saved my life. Without you, I would not have survived those first years after Afghanistan. James is a good man, and a friend. But he is not….you. My life has been yours since that day at Barts and I would not change a moment of it.' I saw uncertainty still in those clear, grey eyes, and I gripped him tighter. ‘Not one moment.' My own voice was unsteady now, I wanted so desperately for him to believe me. He looked at me, still uncertain, but beginning to hope. This close I could see his eyes were misty. He said, wonderingly, ‘Truly?' It was barely a whisper, but it was enough. I pulled him to me, holding him close against my chest, and moving my hands in comforting circles on his back. I said, voice raw, ‘Yes.'

For one long moment he held himself tense and unmoving, then I heard him release a long, shaking sigh, and all the tension drained away. He relaxed into my arms, lowered his head to my shoulder, and I felt his hands drift to my waist, and as I continued to rub his back, his hands encircled my waist and held me tightly. I have no idea how long we stood there, but it was worth every moment of pain in those three long years to know how dear I was held in the affection of Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
